Address tae the Haggis (a day early)

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill
Your hudies like a distant hill
Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead

His knife see rustic Labour dight
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sight
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
'Bethankit!' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash
As fecless as a wither'd rash
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash
His nieve a nit
Tho' bluidy flood or field to dash
O how unfit

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clap in his walie nieve a blade
He'll make it whistle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle

Ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care
And dish them out their bill o' fare
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But if ye wish her gratfu' prayer
Gie her a Haggis

Rabbie Burns

(Huntly is well blessed with two champion Haggis-catchers - yum!!!)